


Did you keep my sweater?

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baking, Beverly Katz and Dogs, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:01:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24380959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: Sam is thoroughly enjoying his cake. He really is. He’s piled under about six blankets, snacking on Bucky’s baking, and avoiding bumping “Viola’s” new stand, and watching Bucky and Clint snarl at each other.Bucky likes to collect stacks of books the New Avengers recommend. Clint likes to judge him, and then bring some on long missions for in-flight entertainment.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 12
Kudos: 93





	Did you keep my sweater?

1\. Clint is angry. Steam out the ears, nose whistling, red clouds in his cheek angry. Lucky is hiding under the crooked chair, paws over his nose, watching Clint stalk around his shitty little apartment. 

“Where is it, boy? Huh? Do you know?” Clint grumbles on repeat. He knows, logically, that Lucky has no damn idea what he’s even talking about. 

He also knows he _could_ put on pants and socks and a sweater. And he _could_ just grab the fanta orange blanket off the recliner.

But, it’s a principal thing. He likes the strawberry shortcake quilt and he’s damn well going to use it to protect his fragile bones against the winter chill. Once he finds it. 

Clint rounds the bedroom for the umpteenth time, and it’s all he can do not to just face plant into the dingy grey carpet. 

It’s too cold, anyway, to lay down like that. He compromises. He flops into the pile of dirty laundry piled in the corner and lets out a muffled scream.

It helps, that his laundry is mostly comprised of blankets in a variety of colors and thicknesses and ages.

But they aren’t _his_ strawberry shortcake quilt. 

He digs out his phone and calls Bucky. 

“He-”

“Bring it home!”

-

2\. Bucky isn’t supposed to be “fiddling” under the sink. Because the last time he “fiddled” he “broke,” which really just means that he undid a decades worth of duck tape and made sure the hot water didn’t boil chicken and the cold water didn’t make slushies.

This time he was just trying make the damn thing stop _ploink-ploink_ ing. He’s not expecting the leather bound thing he finds instead.

 _Clint_ , bless him. Always sticking things wherever. 

Bucky slides back out onto the tile, diligently ignoring the amount of dog hair and dust, and cracks it open. 

The first page is a recipe, handwritten, for a german chocolate cake. There are several tiny, chicken scratch notes added, and it’s cute to see the scrawl is a Barton family trait. 

As he flips through it, Bucky discovers that so is hap-hazard organization. He’s sure it makes sense to them. 

He spends about two hours reading through, until he finds a mostly legible _and_ simple recipe. 

The cake, a beautiful pineapple thing, is just coming out of the oven when Bucky hears Clint’s footsteps at the door.

“Something smells good,” Clint calls.

Bucky “hmms,” at him and sets it on the counter. It’s just as lopsided as the recipe said it would be, and he’s kinda convinced that its more a recipe flaw then cake flaw but still.

Clint comes in to the room and Bucky smiles until he sees Clint’s face crumple. 

Bucky watches in horror as Clint crumples to the ground, shoulders shaking and one hand covering his face as he sobs. 

Bucky sinks down beside him and holds him, lets him weep, even though he’s not sure what he did wrong. 

“Thank you,” Clint says a long time later. 

“I,” Bucky says confused. 

“Haven’t even seen one of those since the last time me and MawMaw made one.”

Bucky kisses him, and it’s a little salty, a little snotty, but it’s as sweet as the cake is when they cut into it two hours late.

-

3\. “Buck-ey _hatessss_ Viola,” Clint slurs. He’s delicately stroking the blue petals of a truly sad looking african violet.

“Bucky does not hate Viola, Bucky is just waiting for the inevitable meltdown when Viola’s time is up,” Bucky says primly. He’s already thrown out three potted plants this week alone. 

Clint whirls around, hand over his heart and looking truly horrified. “Viola would _never_.”

He looks so damn pitiful, so truly hurt, that when he passes out, face down in Bucky’s lap, Bucky spends three hours on google.

He buys a new pot, and some new dirt.

He builds a little greenhouse for it.

He makes Clint install a few sunlight laps, and set up a thermometer. 

“What's it for?” Clint demands. 

“I just like it,” Bucky lies. 

Bucky dust it a lot, but only when Clint is out on mission or something. 

Viola is still alive several months later when Natasha deigns to show up.

“Look!” Clint shows her proudly. “Look! I told you I could. All Viola needed was a little love and water!”

He’s smiling so big, so proud, that Bucky actually _glowers_ the moment it looks like Natasha is going to say anything other than “Good job.”

But she smiles so sweetly at Clint, he lets it pass.

-

4\. Sam is thoroughly enjoying his cake. He _really_ is. He’s piled under about six blankets, snacking on Bucky’s baking, and avoiding bumping “Viola’s” new stand, and watching Bucky and Clint snarl at each other. 

Bucky likes to collect stacks of books the New Avengers recommend. Clint likes to judge him, and then bring some on long missions for in-flight entertainment. 

Sam always thought they were just Clint’s version of sleeping pills, until this moment. 

“Clearly, Jacob’s _devotion_ , has more meaning BECAUSE he’s not a billion years old,” Bucky says.

“Jacob is a _child_ , who is _obsessive_ , and _immature,_ and doesn’t know how to take a _no_ ,” Clint sasses right back.

Sam thinks they should just use their own names, but. 

“Edward is a freaking ancient jagweed who needs to _grow the fuck up_ ,” Bucky growls. 

“Edward has years of experience and soul searching, and has made _peace_ with his mistakes and grown from them!”

Sam decides it’s time to intercede. “Frankly, Bella would’ve been better off by herself.” He takes his cake and goes, enjoying the shock on their faces.

Yeah, he’s read the books.

-

5\. "Did you keep my sweater?” Clint hollars. 

“Yeah, check under the bed!” Bucky says back.

It’s quiet for a moment, and then, “Goddammit! You better not be feeding my italian sub to another damn cat!”

Bucky flinches, and then Mr. Mittens hisses. He takes off, and with him about thirteen other cats. “Well I’m not now,” Bucky grumbles.

“You ready?” Clint asks coming up behind him. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says reaching for two leashes and Clint’s hand. Clint is holding the other three, and a bag of snickerdoodles. 

They make it to the park and let the dogs loose, sitting on the bench together, curled under Clint’s strawberry shortcake quilt. 

Lucky lets out a joyus yelp, and Bucky and Clint both swivel to look. 

“No,” Bucky says immediately. 

“But-” Clint says. 

Bucky stares at the puppy, a raggedy looking poodle with brown curls, and he _knows_ , he’s going to loose already. 

“Clint, we have no more room. We can’t even sleep in our bed anymore. The terrace is sagging under the kittens, the drain is in a constant state of dog-fur clogged.”

Clint’s shoulders droop a little and his eyes go watery. “I mean, if you really,” he starts. 

Bucky stares up at the sky and says a prayer. “Fine. FIne! But I get to name it.”

“Argos thanks you kindly,” Clint says so excited.

Bucky resigns himself to rigging up some kind of multi-teir bunkbed contraption up because he _misses_ sleeping right next to Clint without a faceful of fur.


End file.
